


Pillar of strength

by kaze_chan



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen, Post-Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-11-10
Packaged: 2020-06-23 19:19:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19707796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaze_chan/pseuds/kaze_chan
Summary: Following the news that the Queen is with child, Aramis spirals into a depression.Athos wished he could enlist the help of the others, knowing Porthos would know what to do and D’Artagnan would know what to say. But to tell them would be to endanger them, and Athos had vowed to take this secret to his grave in order to protect both them and Aramis. No, he was on his own to see the marksman through this.Set between season 1 and season 2





	1. Lean on me

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a while, I know. I have many ideas but not enough time to put them to paper, so to speak. Their are only 3 chapters to this story and hopefully I will find the time to work on my many other ideas.

Athos groaned, burying his head in his pillow in a futile attempt to block out the rays of sunlight currently piercing through the cracks of the closed window shutters. Every muscles in his body ached, while a large drum constantly pounded in his head in time with his heart beat. In his pain filled daze, Athos wondered how much alcohol had he drunk last night and what events had led him to such a spiral. A few months ago he wouldn’t have given it much thought, the idea of waking up with a blinding head ache reeking of cheap wine and no knowledge of the previous night’s activities a common and expected occurrence, but he had been proud of his recent efforts to curb his own self destructive behavior, a feat made much easier once he accepted the help of D’Artagnan, Porthos and ……

Aramis.

Turning his head to the side, he carefully pried his eyes open, cursing colourfully as the light amplified his headache. After a few minutes to adjust, the blurry shape sprawled on the bed beside him finally came into focus.

Aramis looked just a ragged as he felt, and though he was still asleep, there was no mistaking the giant weight that had settled on his soul. Athos suddenly remembers why he had been drinking so much last night.

Since the Queen’s announcement that she was with child, Aramis had been on a downward spiral, spending more and more time at church praying, or roaming the taverns of Paris at night, hoping to drown his own misery, something Athos knew from experience, was nearly impossible.

He had done his best to console his friend, but in the end the only thing he could do was keep him company while he drank himself to oblivion, and make sure he made it home safely. A small part of his tired brain found it ironic that he should be the one to keep Aramis from drinking himself to death.

He wished he could enlist the help of the others, knowing Porthos would know what to do and D’Artagnan would know what to say. But to tell them would be to endanger them, and Athos had vowed to take this secret to his grave in order to protect both them and Aramis. No, he was on his own to see the marksman through this.

After first testing the strength of his arms, Athos slowly pushed himself to a sitting position, the change in elevation causing his headache to peak and his stomach to groan in protest. Clenching his eyes shut, he worked to settle his stomach while cursing once again the amount of alcohol the two had consumed.

Finally satisfied he wasn’t going to empty his stomach on the floor, he opened his eyes again to take in his surroundings, not entirely sure where they had ended up after they had left the last tavern. He was happy to see they were in his living quarters, obliviously too drunk to make it back to the garrison as they normally would.

Also judging by the angle of the sun, he assumed they had missed morning muster for the third time in the past 4 days, something that would not have escaped Captain Treville’s attention.

“Aramis,” he spoke softly in deference to the headache he knew the other man must have as well as his own, “we need to go.”

Aramis groaned in reply, before leaning over the edge of the bed, and vomiting onto the floor, his body having not built up the same level of tolerance as the former Comte. Athos waited patiently as Aramis emptied the contents of his stomach, the smell quickly filling the small space, making Athos’ own stomach uneasy.

Aramis flopped back onto the mattress, his whole body shaking with exhaustion and still reeling from the effects of the alcohol. He could hear Athos moving about the room, though he didn’t dare open his eyes, and he marvelled at the man’s tolerance, knowing the swordsman had drunk as much as he had the night before. Clearly those years of wallowing in the bowels of Paris’ taverns had left their mark and Aramis wondered if it was even possible for Athos to get drunk anymore.

“How do you do it?”

Athos didn’t pause as he made his way towards the window, stepping as lightly as possible for both their benefits. “Practice,” came the succinct answer as he shielded his own eyes from the blinding light while he retrieved the bucket of water.

Aramis didn’t have to see to know what Athos was about to do. He had seen Athos’ way of dealing with a hangover many times before, and as predicted the sound of splashing water filled the small room as Athos fully submerged his head in the pail of near freezing water.

The silence was eerie and Aramis was just about to pry open his eyes to check on his comrade when Athos re- emerged, his now wet hair plastered to his face and gasping for air. He listened as Athos moved about the room, almost aimlessly, and finally his own curiosity got the better of him and he forced an eye open.

“Sorry,” the marksman started when he saw what Athos was doing but Athos simply brushed it off. Athos quickly cleaned the floor, his efficient actions those of someone who has done it many times before. 

“No need. Your God has simply seen fit to allow me to live the experience.” It took a few seconds for Aramis’ tired mind to realise Athos was referring to all mornings he and Porthos had helped him after a terrible night when he sought to drown himself in drink.

“Does it get easier?”

“Yes,” Athos replied somberly while he emptied the bucket out on the street, “but it’s not a fate I wish for you. Come on, Treville will be waiting.”

***

It was almost an hour later by the time the two finally made their way through the gates of the Garrison, Athos’ gaze automatically going to the Captain’s office as if he expected the man to come storming out at any moment.  
Fortunately they were saved from their Captain’s wrath for the time being and Athos thanked the universe for small favors as he steered Aramis towards the wooden tables near the stables. The marksman gratefully sank unto the bench, letting his head fall against the cool wooden surface of the table in an attempt to lessen the pounding in his head which had gotten worse by the sun and the noise during their walk.

“Drink, it’ll help,” Athos placed a cup of water on the table within reach, the corner of his lip quirking up in amusement at the change in roles.

Aramis groaned, his stomach doing summersaults at the thought of eating or drinking anything and suddenly he had a small understanding of how Athos felt all those mornings.

“ATHOS!!! My office NOW!!” Captain Treville’s voice boomed from above, catching everyone by surprise, the deep timber echoing in the garrison courtyard long after the man in question had turned back towards his office door.

Aramis flinched at the sound of his Captain’s voice, though Athos couldn’t tell if it was from the sheer volume or from the angry tone. Either way, he knew better than to make his Captain wait, and so he headed up the stairs at a quick pace, making sure to keep his facial expression as neutral as possible, a skilled he had perfected as a child.

Turning the corner at the top of the stairs, he caught sight of Porthos and d’Artagnan emerging from the stables. If their appearance was any indication, he would have to assume his two friends had been given stable duties for the day, a job normally reserved for those whom the Captain was not entirely pleased with at the moment. 

Catching Porthos’ eye, he gave the man a quick nod, straightening to his full height before heading into his Captain’s office.

Porthos watched their defacto leader brace himself as he entered the Captain’s office before turning his attention to the slump form of his other team mate. Putting down the shovel, he carefully studied the marksman while he made his way to the other side of the table, intending to keep the man company while they waiting for Athos to return.

“I’m fine Porthos,” Aramis offered without lifting his head, as if he could sense the streetfighters gaze.

Porthos gave a snort, “don’t look fine to me.” But he didn’t push.

For weeks now, he had watched as the normally cheerful and flamboyant man spiral downwards, and he was no closer to know the reason. He had asked a few indirect questions and had gotten vague answers but for the most part, he was able to piece together a probable theory to explain his friend’s dark mood, and of course it involved a love interest.

But without knowing for sure, he was left guessing and not sure how best to proceed, a shared sentiment that greatly frustrated D’Artagnan. Porthos could practically feel the younger man’s growing frustration as he stood beside him staring down at their motionless friend. So far D’Artagnan had followed his lead by not being direct about the situation but he knew the fuse was growing shorter by each passing day.

The sound of footsteps on the balcony above quickly brought their attention away from the tense silence that had fallen over then small divided group.

Athos could feel the three sets of eyes on him as he quickly descended the stairs, his face as unreadable as ever and giving away nothing, something that Porthos was not used to anymore. Despite the intense gaze of his two straw covered comarades, the swordsman turned his full attention to the heap slumped at the table. 

“Aramis, you and I leave within the hour,” he calmly informed the marksman. “Pack enough provisions for two week’s travel.”

Aramis slowly got to his feet and headed towards the living quarters, the commanding tone used by Athos had managed to filter through the haze still filling his head.

“Porthos, could you see to our horses? I must retrieve the other provisions from the armory and the kitchen.” 

“Sure thing,” the bigger man agreed, though his scowl clearly indicated he didn’t like the fact that the group was being separated.

“Wait, we’re not going with you?” D’Artagnan fumed, the short fuse of his anger finally running out. “What’s going on? With you and Aramis. For weeks you spend your nights in the taverns and pretend there’s nothing wrong. We’re not ….”

“ENOUGH!” 

D’Artagan’s growing tirade was stopped by Porthos’ loud voice, “enough. We’ll have the horses ready in half an hour.”

Athos, realising he was staring at his youngest companion, turned his attention back to the bigger man, simply nodding his gratitude for not only the horses but for stopping D’Artagnan. Since this whole fiasco began, Athos had not missed all the occasions where the younger man wanted to say something only to be held back by Porthos.

Porthos waited till Athos had disappeared into the armory before speaking.

“You can’t ask him that,” he spoke softly, almost sounding defeated as he kept his attention on the armory door. “Whatever this is, it’s on Aramis. It’s all Aramis. And by cornering Athos like that, you’re asking him to choose between lying to yer face or betraying Aramis. Either way you’re forcing Athos to hurt one of us.”

D’Artagnan was taken aback. He hadn’t thought of it that way. He hadn’t considered how this could be affecting Athos at all. Athos was just as much caught up in whatever this was too, frustrated and unable to resolve the situation any more than they could. Porthos was right, this was entirely of Aramis’ doing and Athos was purely on damage control.

“Has anything like this ever happened before?” 

Porthos weighed his answer carefully. In short, yes. Athos himself had drifted in this pattern for years after the death of his brother and wife, unable to move on or put his demons to rest, and Aramis too had spent the few months after Savoy floating through the garrison like a ghost. 

But this felt differently. Whatever it was, neither one seemed willing to talk about it, or even give him a hint. But there were no massacres recently or really anything of note. No, this situation was much more delicate, and when it came to Aramis, there was really only one scenario that could easily create a very delicate situation.

Though Porthos wasn’t about to share his theory on Aramis’ possible amorous activities with anyone, he did feel D’Artagnan had earned his place in their tight nit groupe. “A few times, like after Savoy,” he offered as an explanation. “Give him time. He bounces back better than anyone I’ve ever seen. You’ll see.”

It was visibly obvious the vague answer didn’t satisfy the younger man, but by this time in their relationship, he understood it for what it was. D’Artagnan seemed to deflate, his anger replaced by sorrow has he focused his attention instead on Aramis’ quarter’s window. Though he still didn’t know what the problem was, he now had a better picture of the complexity of the situation.

Placing a hand on D’Artagnan’s shoulder, Porthos hoped to offer the other man some comfort before heading towards the stables to ready the horses. He didn’t like the idea of their group being split up and had every intensions of asking Treville for a general idea of where his two brothers were heading.

In the armory, Athos quickly set to work collecting what weapons he thought they might need. The only instructions from the Captain were to deliver a sensitive letter to the priests at Mont St-Michel and to wait there for a reply message. He busied his mind with preparation in the hopes of erasing the look on D’Artagnan’s face.

Though he was used to working long hours with little sleep, this entire charade was mentally taxing, leaving him feeling exhausted, and the last thing he wanted right now was a confrontation with his impulsive Gascon friend.

Straightening his hunched shoulders, he put aside his feelings and concentrated on the task at hand. In an hour’s time he hoped to have Aramis outside city limits and away from all the gossip and stares his recent behaviour have created.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think.


	2. Moments of quiet reflexions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is the mission away from Paris enough for Aramis to accept the hand fate has dealt him? Will Athos finally be able to pull him out of his depression?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for taking so long between chapters. There was a section of this chapter that I just didn't like, and so naturally I spent the last few days re-writing it. Hope the chapter as a whole flows nicely together. Since this story is only three chapters long, don't expect giant cliff-hangers like my other stories. Just simple brotherly moments of concern.

Once they hit the road, Athos waited till they were well out of Paris before sharing the details of their mission with his comrade. Treville had sent them out to Mont Saint-Michel to deliver a message, an easy enough task. Aramis, for his part, was only half listening. Between the horses hoof beats and the rising sun, his headache was making it very difficult to concentrate on anything other than staying up right.

Seeing Aramis sway in his saddle, Athos decided they should take a beak under the shade of an oak tree to allow his brother a little time to recover. Once he was sure the other was not going to fall while dismounting, Athos searched through his saddle bags for the foul tasting herbs Aramis always made him eat when he had a headache.

“Chew these, it’ll help,” he whispered handing over the herbs. 

To tired and in pain to care, Aramis simply took them and popped them in his mouth. Athos grinned slightly when Aramis made a face at the bitter taste once he started chewing the leaves. Normally he would have mocked his brother for all the times he had been lectured by Aramis for his drinking while he chewed the foul tasting herbs, but now wasn’t the time. They rested for a half hour before continuing their journey.

The rest of their trip to Mont Saint-Michel was quiet and passed quickly. Aramis’ mood improved slightly once they were a few days from the city, the beautiful sunny days doing wonders to restore some of his spirits. They spoke little and spent their evenings in their own quiet reflexions, slowly going through the cask of wine Athos had brought with him. At this point, there were no new secrets Aramis could share and there were no solutions or polite platitudes Athos could offer him. In the long sleepless night hours, the two found they sorely missed Porthos and D’Artagnan.

When they finally reached Mont Saint-Michel, Athos sought the audience of the head bishop to deliver the missive. He waited patiently while the priest read the contents, fully aware of his bedraggled appearance since the two travelers didn’t want the company of others, and so they avoided any large cities as well as inns and taverns. As a result, the two had spent the past few days on horseback and sleeping in the woods.

Every once in a while, the bishop would glance up at Athos before returning his attention the Treville’s message, making the swordsman feel more and more self-conscience; no small feat considering he was raised to look down on most people.

“Please, come in and rest. You look weary from your travels.”

Athos didn’t really know what to say and so he simply nodded with the confidence and assuredness bred into a son of nobility. Treville had been specific when he said they needed to wait for the Bishop’s reply before returning, and so he assumed the clergyman needed time to formulate one.

After stabling their horses, the two were lead to their rooms, where a large pail of hot water was waiting for them. Clearly, they would be spending the night Athos mused as he eyed the sparse but humble accommodations.

After joining the monks in their evening repast, Aramis didn’t reject the invitation to join them in evening prayers. Athos, on the other hand, could not be persuaded, and so he set off to roam the walkways of the impressive structure. He had visited once before as a child and even now, he felt in awe of the impressive construction. 

Walking back towards their small rooms, it didn’t take him long to notice Aramis’ absence but there was no need to search for the missing marksman; Athos knew exactly where he could find his missing comrade. As he made himself as comfortable as he could on the hard bed, he started to wonder how long they would be here waiting for the Bishop’s reply. 

It turned out the answer was 7 days.

For 7 days, Athos waited patiently for the Bishop’s reply, only to be told the documentation was not yet ready. There was no need to rush, he kept telling himself. Treville knew where they were, they had food and lodging and the monks were good company. This was a good place to rest and regain your strength. Unfortunately, Athos did not do idle well.

The lack of physical work left him awake late into the night with nothing but his thoughts to keep him company, and since he did not dare drink himself into oblivion while staying at the holy site, it meant he slept only a few hours each night. Aramis for his part, spent his time in the chapel praying with the other priest and partaking in all their simple daily activities.

It was on the third day when he was cleaning his weapons for the second time that day, that Athos finally realised this entire mission was a complete fabrication, simply to get Aramis out of the city and allow him time to accept whatever events had led to his downward spiral. 

The Captain had picked this location specifically to allow Aramis’ deep rooted religious beliefs to help in his healing process, and the change was nearly instantaneous. Within days, Aramis’ carefree and calm demeanour was returning and his smile was finally reaching his eyes. And so Athos started helping the monks do physical work; he figured he may as well make himself useful while he waited.

“Monsieur Athos, I thank you for your patience,” the Bishop warmly greeted Athos as the musketeer entered the man’s office, “I hope your stay with us has been pleasant. Father Pierre has told me you assisted him with the harvest yesterday.”

Athos politely nodded. “A simple act to show my gratitude.”

The Bishop smiled. He had had the time to get to know the two men during the week and so was not offended by the short reply. “As night is about to be upon us, you are more than welcome to spend one more night and begin your journey tomorrow.”

“Thank you, I will ensure the Captain knows how welcoming you have been,” Athos replied before taking the pieces of parchments from the Bishop. 

As Athos disappeared down the hall, the Bishop was left to contemplate his two guest. He really didn’t know what to expect when the two Musketeers had arrived unexpectedly at his door, with a note in hand from the Captain of the King’s Musketeers. The note simply asked that the two men be allowed to stay for seven days “as they wait for a reply” before being sent back to the garrison. Any expense incurred by their stay was to be sent along with them in a sealed envelope and the regiment would fully reimburse the monastery. 

Trusting Treville, the Bishop had welcomed them into the fold. Athos was a man of few words with a face devoid of emotions, but when he did speak, the few chosen words spoke volumes. He was well educated, his speech showing patterns of nobility, and despite his cold outward appearance, he cared deeply for the other man’s well-being. Aramis, on the other hand, was deeply troubled by something, almost as if he was being crushed to death by a large weight. But as the days wore on, he openly welcomed the peace and tranquility and it was evident to all here that had he not been a Musketeer, he would have been a man of the cloth. Aramis spent his first two days here in prayer, but when he emerged from the chapel, he was a changed man, almost as if his soul had been rejuvenated. Clearly, Captain Treville knew his men well enough to know how to help the young man.

Athos made his way to the gardens bellow, knowing he would find Aramis among the rows of well-kept vegetables. He could hear the man’s voice long before he could see him, as the hymn he was singing carried through the quiet corridors. It was a welcomed change.

This was exactly what the musketeer needed to center himself and find peace with the knowledge he had a son who could never know his true father. As Athos approached the other man, Aramis finished his song before nodding towards the parchment in his hand.

“We have the Bishop’s reply,” Athos informed, watching for any change in Aramis’ positive demeanor. “We will leave at first light tomorrow, so long as our host can endure another night of your poor singing.” This was a lie, Aramis was actually a good singer, but the sarcastic quirp brought a genuine smile to the younger man’s face.

“Then I will have the next few days to serenade you as we ride home my friend,” Aramis replied in his most charming tone possible. “No doubt Porthos and D’Artagnan have gotten themselves into some kind of trouble without us.”

Athos too had thought of their friends many times during their weeklong stay, and it was nice to hear his friend voice it aloud. 

In the morning, the two Musketeers left Mont St-Michel after many of the monks came to see them off and offer prayers and well wishes for their safe travels. For the most part, their journey was uneventful. Aramis hummed or chatted most of the way and Athos welcomed the return of his brother, in spirit and in mind. A few times Aramis commented on how pale Athos seemed and asked if they should take a rest. 

Athos insisted he was fine, simply tired and in need of a good night’s rest and so Aramis decided not to push. It was true a good night’s rest was something neither one had had in a long time, but though Aramis had enjoyed the peace and tranquility at the monastery, he knew Athos had longed to be on the road again. At least the journey was easy, Aramis thought to himself. 

On the third morning, however, trouble found them.

Athos and Aramis had been saddling their horses when the all too familiar sound of swords being unsheathed stopped them in their tracks. The two exchanged a glance before turning in unison to face their attacker.

“What do we have here?” Two men stood brandishing their swords and ready for a fight. Their clothes were nearly in rags and neither one looked strong enough to lift even a saddle bag. “Looks like you two wandered off the path.”

Both Athos and Aramis scrutinized the men in front on them. Their odds were even if not slightly in the musketeer’s favor since these two didn’t seem very skilled holding their swords. Aramis glanced over to Athos before turning his attention back to the men.

“Gentlemen,” Aramis stepped forwards, testing their skills. Predictably, both men turned their swords towards Aramis, completely forgetting about Athos. Just like old times, he thought before taking another small step. “There’s no need for that here.”

“That’s far enough. Give us all your coins.” The first man held out his left hand as if expecting Aramis to start digging through his pockets. Aramis simply stared back a little confused, not at all intimidated by the bandits. Even Athos arched an eyebrow.

“Well David, it seems we’ll just have to take it from them.” The two bandits moved into position and waited for Aramis and Athos to do the same.

Aramis actually laughed at this. What kind of bandits politely waited for their victims to be prepared before attacking? “Well Athos, I think we better do as they say,” he joked as he took out his sword. 

Athos wasn’t in the mood for this. He was still feeling tired and these two men hardly seemed worth the effort. “Try not to kill them,” Athos drawled as he finally pulled out his sword, “I’d rather not have to explain to Treville why we killed two farm hands.”

The sound of swords clashing echoed in the woods as Aramis and Athos faced off against the bandits. Their initial assessment proved true; these men were not nearly as skilled as the musketeers and their technique was atrocious. 

And yet Aramis was finding it difficult to disarm his opponent. His legs moved slowly and his arms didn’t feel like they had the strength to follow through with an attack, which gave the bandit a clear advantage. This was taking a lot more effort and concentration then it should. Clearly those past few months in drunken oblivion had taken its toll on his body.

Glancing quickly over to his left, he could see Athos was having just as much difficulty with his opponent, a small fact Aramis stored away to ponder later. Even on his worst days, Athos was unmatched with a sword. Finally the two musketeers managed to disarm the bandits, and predictably the two men scrambled to their feet before fleeing.

“Well that was embarrassing,” Aramis panted, trying to catch his breath.

“Which part?” Athos too was trying to catch his breath, leaning on a nearby tree for support. “The part where we nearly lost to two village morons or the part where you and I flailed about like two old ladies who have never held a sword before?”

Aramis laughed at his friend’s unique ability to summarise their current situation. Straightening his back, he tried not to wince when his muscled screamed in protest. He also noticed a few new rips in his doublet. Clearly the bandit had managed to get under his guard more than once. “Let’s just say there were ten of them,” he offered glancing over to survey his friend. 

Athos gave it some thought while he sheathed his sword. “Maybe just four. We wouldn’t want Treville to send a patrol to apprehend the band of bandits.” 

“True.” Finally having caught his breath, Aramis motioned towards their horses. “Maybe we should leave before they decide to try again.”

Athos couldn’t argue. His muscles felt exhausted from the fight and he doubted either one of them would be able to win another fight at the moment. He felt slightly light headed as he pulled himself into the saddle, keenly aware that Aramis had noticed. Though he was glad to have Aramis back, he didn’t miss the medic’s constant concern for his wellbeing.

“Let’s go,” he ordered in an attempt to distract Aramis. He really did feel awful but was stubbornly committed to sleeping in his own quarters tonight and they still had a lot of ground to cover before night fall.

After a long day of ridding, the two Musketeers finally crested a hill that gave way to a spectacular view of Paris just as the sun was setting. The two came to a stop to look upon their home city.

“What are you thinking?” Athos’ low voice floated through the fields. After the fight, the two had spent most of the day in silence. 

Aramis sat in his saddle contemplating the question as he looked over the darkening rooftops. “I could have stayed there, at the abbey,” he finally admitted. He kept his steady gaze on the city ahead. He started feeling the familiar weight the closer they got to Paris and recent events had given him much to consider.

Athos too stared at the many rooftops, letting the sound of crickets echo across the valley. “Why didn’t you?” It was an honest question. Athos had seen how happy the other man was at the abbey, and he knew Aramis had once considered the life of a monk. The timing was perfect and the monks had welcomed him into the fold without a second thought. 

The question hung unanswered between them, but the heavy silenced wasn’t awkward. In the past few months the two friends had shared many deep conversations about their fate, their destiny, and their hearts.

After a long silence, Aramis straightened in his saddle. “I didn’t feel it was time. I realised running away was not an option, nor was drinking myself into a stupor every night.” Athos simply hummed in response. “I’ve also resolved that if I can not be a father to my son, then I shall settle with being his protector.”

“And what if it’s not enough?” No matter what Aramis chose, Athos knew the thought of having a child he could never hold in his arms would be a painful burden for his friend. 

“It’ll have to be, for all our sakes it’ll have to be enough.” For days, Aramis tried to convince himself he could be happy as a musketeer, watching over his child from a far, but he could feel his resolve slipping when he spoke the words out loud. “And if the day comes when it’s not, I will be faced with a very difficult decision. I could never endanger her and our child, or my brothers.”

Athos finally glanced sideways to meet his brother’s eye, nodding his understanding. If it came to it, he would one day have to say goodbye to his brother, but not today. Today they were heading home. “Are you ready?” 

“Yes,” he finally answered, his voice sounding more sure and confident. “I look forward to spending the evening hearing about Porthos and d’Artagnan’s many adventures.”


	3. Share the load

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos and Aramis return to the Garrison.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally the last chapter!! It has been worked and re-worked many times, before it finally got my seal of approval. I have an epilogue planned so stay tuned for that. I'll just add it as an other chapter to the story when I get it finished. I hope this last chapter is a fitting conclusion and you get your fill of brotherly love.

D’Artagnan sunk down onto the bench and closed his eyes. He was exhausted from their recent mission. He and Porthos had been dispatched to an area in the city that had seen a recent spike in thefts, and the two spent the day chasing a group of organised thieves. Treville offered to bolster their numbers with temporary members, but Porthos and d’Artagnana declined feeling unable to replace their missing brothers, even if it was just for the day.

Porthos took the seat next to his brother, ignoring how the table felt empty with just the two of them. “I’m going to need a new pair of boots if I have to chase one more thief through the streets,” Porthos groused loudly as he leaned his forehead on the hard wood surface.

“Lucky for you reinforcements have arrived!”

D’Artagnan’s eyes instantly flew open but it took Porthos’ tired mind a few extra seconds to recognize the voice.

“Aramis?” 

As he lifted his head, he immediately spotted his two missing brothers handing their horse’s reins to the stable boy. He hadn’t heard the sound of the hoof beats on the cobble stone. D’Artagnan was already out of his seat but only made a few steps in there direction, clearly happy to see the two men but unsure on how to proceed. The last version of Aramis he’d seen was a very closed off and distant man.

As if sensing his younger brother’s hesitation, Aramis closed the distance and wrapped his arms around the smaller man. “Heaven’s above, have you not been eating?” Aramis chastised warmly, ruffling the Gascon’s hair. “You seem thinner than before?”

D’Artagnan laughed as he swatted Aramis’ hand away playfully. And suddenly all the built up tension that separated them was gone. Porthos made his way over and pulled Aramis into a tight embrace before pulling back to look his brother in the eye. The marksman grinned at him, his smile as charming as ever and Porthos nodded his approval, tears starting to sting his eyes. 

“What’s this I hear about thieves?” Aramis asked curiously, respectfully drawing the attention away.

D’Artagnan enthusiastically recounted their last few days in hurried excitement as Aramis listened to every detail, but Porthos’ attention drifted to the fourth member of their group. 

Athos stood back, looking worn out but more at ease than he could recall seeing him lately. Though the rest of the regiment knew Athos as cold and distant, Porthos knew a different man. Their defacto team leader was a fiercely loyal brother and friend, who would do anything to save the life of those around him, no matter the cost. 

And he had just saved Aramis.

As Aramis and d’Artagnan moved towards the table, Porthos moved to grip his friend’ shoulder, needing that physical contact. Athos didn’t shy away, instead leaned into the touch as if for support.

“Thank you,” Porthos offered though he knew those words didn’t quite convey the sentiment. Athos simply nodded, understanding all the unspoken words. Their attention was drawn back towards Aramis as the other man laughed at something d’Artagnan was saying.

This was the third time Aramis had been saved from himself. Porthos clearly remembered how Herculean a task it was after Savoy. It had taken the whole regiment nearly a year to pull him out. Then it had taken the four of them nearly a month after Marsac’s return and the fallout from the events that followed. 

And now Athos had done it alone. For reason Porthos assumed he would never know, Athos needed to do it alone. Glancing back towards the swordsman, Porthos scrutinized the man in front of him, only now noticing the dark rings under his eyes and the way his shoulders sagged. “You look like hell.”

Athos knew he must look just as horrible as he felt. “Thank you for those kind words,” he attempted to put his friend’s worries aside. Though he had come to accept his brother’s concerns, he still felt uncomfortable when they fussed over him. 

Porthos and Aramis, however, had learned long ago how to deal with the reluctant man and were never insulted or deterred by Athos’ attempt to side step his own wellbeing. Even D’Artagnan was starting to be able to get under Athos’ guard. The bigger man simply grinned and squeezed just a little tighter on his brother’s shoulder. “How about you get cleaned up and I’m sure Serge can find you two something to eat.”

“I was thinking drinks,” came the easy reply, a small grin smoothing out his tired features. “But first I must report to Captain Treville.”

At this Aramis paused, and moved to intercept Athos. “Allow me,” he offered, “there is much I need to discuss with our Captain and you are in much need of a good meal and rest. And tomorrow night it will be my turn to pay for drinks.”

Athos was more than happy Aramis offered, he really didn’t want to face his Captain tonight or climb all those stairs. “Perhaps just a brief report,” Athos advised as he handed over the Bishop’s reply, “given the late hour.”

Aramis grinned in response. “Of course, since our journey was uneventful, this should not take long.” The two silently agreed not to mention the bandits or their poor display of swordsmanship.

As Aramis headed up the stairs, Athos made his way to the marksman’s quarters to wash up. He left a spare change of clothes there months ago when the nights of drinking began and since Aramis had borrowed his own room many times in the last few months, Athos didn’t think he would mind repaying the favor.

By the time Aramis re-emerged from the Captain’s office, D’Artagnan was arriving with two bowls of stew that smelled wonderful. Aramis didn’t know how hungry he was until a bowl was placed in front of him, and he eagerly sat down to eat.

“Where’s Athos?” D’Artagnan asked as he placed the second bowl on the table.

Porthos kept his gaze fixed on the archway leading towards the sleeping quarters. “Gone to wash up,” he informed. 

Aramis moved to get up, worry etched all over his face, but he was stopped by Porthos. “You’re going to eat,” he told the other man sternly. “I’m sure he’s fine. I’ll come get you if I need you.” 

Aramis hated the thought. The two had been nearly inseparable in the last few months, and after all they’d been through, Aramis didn’t like the idea of Athos being off on his own. He knew Athos was not feeling well all day, a fact proven by their earlier fight, and he regretted not checking him earlier, but the look on Porthos’ face told him he wasn’t going to win this argument.

“All right,” he reluctantly agreed. “But I’m coming as soon as I’ve finished eating.”

Porthos grinned as he headed towards the sleeping quarters; he expected nothing else. As he turned the corner, his attention shifted to finding his missing comrade. Fortunately he didn’t need to search long. Knowing Aramis’ quarters were the closest, he made his way there knowing Athos had probably gone there to wash up.

Porthos hadn’t really been expecting anything to be wrong. Athos did look tired and so was probably just taking his time, but he was a little surprised to find Athos curled up on the bed asleep.

The image made him stop in his tracks. Not only had Athos not stirred as he pushed the door open, but the man hadn’t even taken the time to undo his weapon’s belt before lying down on Aramis’ bed. He debated a little on whether he should let the man sleep or wake him. In his sleep, however, Athos looked pale and lying on the hilt of his sword couldn’t be very comfortable.

“Athos,” Porthos called softly as he moved forwards, knowing the other man was normally a light sleeper, “Athos, you awake?” When no answer came, he stretched out his hand to lightly shake the other man’s shoulder. “Athos,” he tried again a little more forcefully, feeling his mounting panic.

The only response he got was a low moan and a small twitch. He was about to try again when he noticed the hair on the nape of Athos’ neck and his forehead were damp. The night air was cool and he felt comfortable in his doublet, so there was no reason why Athos would be sweating…unless.

Keeping his hand on Athos’ shoulder in case the other man should wake up, Porthos placed his other hand on the sleeping man’s forehead. As predicted, Athos’ skin felt hot to the touch.

“Damn it,” the bigger man cursed as he pulled his hand away; just when they finally got Aramis back on track. All things considered, a feverish Athos was nothing new; this was something they’ve all dealt with before. What worried him the most was how Aramis was going to react.

By the time Aramis and D’Artagnan arrived, Porthos had already managed to strip Athos of his boots, weapons belt and coat, all the while the other man barely flinched. Porthos quickly told their defacto medic it was just a small fever and no need to worry, but Aramis needed to see for himself. He watched closely as Aramis placed a hand on their brother’s forehead, wanting to gage for himself the other man’s fever.

“Best to let him sleep it off,” Aramis concluded after some time. “He’s most likely just exhausted.”

Porthos couldn’t argue with that assessment. Athos barely slept as it was, and often forgot to eat three solid meals a day unless he was reminded. In the past few months, his main focus had been on Aramis and so the bigger man had no doubts Athos neglected his own well-being.

“Aramis why don’t we let Porthos take the first watch,” D’Artagnan quickly suggested when Aramis looked like he was about to settle in to care for their sick brother. “Come on.” 

Aramis once again looked like he was going to argue, but the tired man was easily led away, his own fatigue starting to catch up with him. While D’Artagnan led a slightly reluctant Aramis towards Porthos’ quarters, Porthos settled in for what he knew would be a long night.

Though Athos slept all night, his sleep was anything but restful. He tossed and turned all night as his body fought the fever, and all Porthos could do was watch over him and replace the cold compress. Halfway through the night, D’Artagnan appeared to take his watch and allow Porthos to get some sleep. Once in his quarters, he checked on Aramis who was fast asleep in the bed, before settling in the makeshift bed on the floor D’Artagnan must have made. 

This routine went on for two more days before Athos’ fever finally broke. Athos woke often but the illness weakened his already tired body and he was never awake long. Treville had given them light duty inside the Garrison so someone could always be available to tend to their sick brother. 

As predicted, Aramis took his friends illness hard. 

He retreated into his own thoughts, working silently despite the numerous attempts made by Porthos or D’Artagnan to engage him in conversation. D’Artagnan and Porthos became increasingly worried when he spent all his free time caring for Athos, often refusing their willingness to help, and ignoring his own well-being. 

Aramis watched over a sleeping Athos, letting the rosary beads slip through his fingers as he fell into the comfort of prayers. He had been too self-absorbed for too long and Athos had suffered for it.

But no more.

As he sat by Athos’ bedside, Aramis promised to never again lose himself. Once upon a time it didn’t matter, but now he had too much to lose. 

“Stop it,” Porthos’ low voice filled the silence, momentarily startling Aramis out of his thoughts. ”You’re blaming yourself,” he explained as he entered to darkening room, “stop it.”

Aramis took a deep breath as he turned his attention back to the sleeping man. He felt ashamed to face his two brothers. “It is my fault.” 

“Maybe,” D’Artagnan added. “but you don’t have to do this alone. Whatever happened before, it doesn’t matter anymore. I was alone when my father was killed. Then you all took me in and became my family, my brothers.” D’Artagnan moved to place a hand on Aramis’ shoulder since the other man hadn’t taken his eyes off Athos. “Hey, you’re not alone. Whatever happened, we’re here for you. You’re not alone.”

Aramis bowed his head, trying to stop the tears that threaten to fall. He wanted to tell them both how sorry he was for the whole situation but he couldn’t find the words.

“Aramis,” Porthos stepped forward, “I know the last few months were hard for you, and for whatever reason, you had to shut us out. We’re not mad.” Porthos crossed the short distance to crouch by his friend’s side. “But this,” he paused indicating Athos, “ is something we can help you with. Let us.”

This time his tears spilled over. It wasn’t that he thought he was alone or that Porthos and D’Artagnan didn’t care, it was just that he felt responsible for Athos and with everything that was happening and without realising it, he had started piling on the guilt again. How often had he listened to Athos tell him to let him help, and now his other brothers were here telling him the same thing.

“I’m sorry,” Aramis croaked as he leaned into Porthos, hiding his face in the bigger man’s chest. “I’m sorry.”

“Shh,” Porthos soothed as he wrapped his arms around his brother. ”It’s ok, we’ve got you,” he offered, before reaching out for D’Artagnan and pulling him into the hug as well. The four of them had quickly and effortlessly become close, and he often forgot how young D’Artagnan actually was or how the tragic events that led to his arrival affected him. 

Things started improving after their long overdue heart to heart by Athos’ bedside. Aramis willingly relied on Porthos and D’Artagnan, and the three of them took turns nursing their reticent brother back to health. A week later found D’Artagnan and Aramis sparing in the practice yard while Porthos and Athos did the inventory of the armory. 

D’Artagnan easily blocked Aramis’ attacks and managed to get under the older man’s guard. Though Aramis was the more skilled swordsman, his body felt weak and out of practice, his parry lacking his normal artistic elegance. 

“Again,” Aramis commanded as he readied for another bout, whipping the sweat from his brow.

“Are you sure? Maybe we should take a rest.” 

“Just a few more, please.”

D’Artagnan could tell Aramis was tiring after every bout, but Aramis kept insisting they continue. And so D’Artagnan got into position, albeit reluctantly and the two reengaged.

Treville watched from his office as the sound of swords clashing echoed through the Garrison. It was good to see Aramis practicing and he had no doubts than within a few weeks’ time he would be back to full strength. As he made his way back to his desk, he glanced at the note the two had brought back from the monastery.

Captain Treville,

We have housed and cared for your men for seven days, as you requested. The total owing amount incurred by their stay is 0 livres. In the future, we would warmly accept any of your men who are in need of spiritual guidance or rest. It is we who are humbled by your considerations. We will keep you and your men in our prayers. May God bless and be with you in your hearts and souls.

Bishop Morneau

Treville made a note to remind himself to send the monastery a small sum for them to use in any way they chose as a gesture of appreciation. The monks might never know his level of gratitude he had for them for the kindness they had shown Aramis in his hour of need. Glancing back towards the courtyard, Treville could see the stable hand readying his horse and he hurried out of his office.

“Take a rest Aramis,” he ordered as he reached the bottom of the stairs. “I can’t afford to be another man short.” Any reply Aramis might have had was quickly cut off by the Captain as he swung up on his horse. “And you can inform Athos that you two are on stable duties for the next month, starting tomorrow.”

Treville turned and rode away, grining at the sight of Aramis’ mortified expression. 

“Well, at least you’ll be able to regain some of your strength,” D’Artagnan chided as he poured them each a cup of water. Having grown up on a farm, D’Artagnan had done his fair share of mucking out stables, and everyone knew the task was by no means the most glamorous or easiest. “Cheers to your return!”

Any anger Aramis felt quickly evaporated. He knew his recent behavior could merit a far worse fate and so he raised his cup to meet D’Artagnan’s. “I suppose we should inform Athos.”

At this D’Artagnan chuckled. Athos loved his horse, but he did not like horses in general. He treated them with the same attitude as he treated most people. He tolerated them because he needed to, and like people, the horses reacted more or less the same way. Athos would gladly take any other assignment instead of stable duties. Adding to his displeasure was the fact that stable hands started earlier than morning muster.

“Need a little help?” Aramis called out as he entered the armory, D’Artagnan right behind him. 

No one answered but they could hear movement from somewhere in the back.

They made their way through the rows of neatly placed muskets and pistols, impressed by the rare tidiness of the armory, towards the back to find their team mates. Porthos was just finishing placing spears and held out a hand to stop the other two as he picked up the quill and wrote the amount he counted on the parchment.

“Just finished!” he proclaimed.

“Where’s Athos?”

Porthos indicated towards a pile of empty grain bags in the corner where Athos was sitting leaning against the wall, his arms folded in his lap and his hat pulled down. 

“Who knew counting would be so tiresome?” Aramis joked, though not maliciously. Athos was regaining his strength, but he still tired easily and often needed to rest a little during the day. 

“Maybe it was just boredom,” came to laconic reply.

“So now you wake up,” Porthos teased, “after I finished all the hard work.”

“You seemed to have had it under control.”

Porthos came around to offer his friend a hand up. “Always do.”

Athos accepted the gesture and allowed the bigger man to pull him to his feet. 

“Well then we come bearing great news,” D’Artagnan added, his trademark grin lighting up his face. “Treville has given you a new assignment, starting tomorrow morning.”

Athos’ expression hardened slightly. “Don’t tell me,” he groused in displeasure. Like Aramis, he had expected Captain Treville to exact some sort of consequence. Thus far, his illness had kept him away from his Captain’s ire. Clearly that was no longer the case. “How long?”

“Fear not my dear friend,” Aramis wrapped his arm around his friend’s shoulder. “You will have me for company. It will seem like no time at all.” Athos arched an eyebrow as Aramis deliberately avoided answering his question. After a few moments, Aramis gave in. “A month.”

Athos took in a deep breath, the only tell-tale sign of his annoyance. “I believe I’m still owed a drink.” They all laughed. Their team of four seeming stronger than ever and their bond of brotherhood forever forged together. This was how it was supposed to be. 

Aramis watched with renewed awe as Athos led the way out of the armory. Though they all contributed to their group dynamics, Athos was their pillar of strength. It was no secret that Athos thought little of himself, but there was nothing he wouldn’t do for any one of his brothers. They all relied on his friendship, guidance and leadership, and in return he had learned to rely on them, and they were all the better for it. He brought out their best.

Aramis would always feel an ache in his heart for the love he could never have and the child he could never hold, but he did have his brothers to help him through it, and he knew Athos would always be there to help him weather the storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any typos or mistakes are mine. I do not own the Musketeers.


	4. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Musketeers run into some familiar faces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At last, the long awaited Epilogue! I wanted to get this just right and worked it over many times. I hope you all enjoy it.

“Now what do ya think that’s all about?”

Porthos slowed his horse to a stop as two men came into view further up the road, standing in the middle and effectively blocking their path. 

“I don’t know,” D’Artagnan pulled up beside him, studying the strangers in front them. “Could be a trap.”

Porthos leaned forwards in his saddle, looking around him at the flat terrain and the thinning forest. “Doesn’t seem like a good spot, and they just lost the element of surprise by being out there.”

D’Artagnan merely shrugged his shoulders. “In any case, they’re out numbered.”

“Who’s outnumbered?” Aramis called as he pulled his horse up behind his comrades, not sure why the other two had stopped.

“Those guys on the road up there.”

Aramis sat up in his saddle to get a better view. The two men looked like they only had swords, and there was nowhere for reinforcements to hide. “Well, we better not keep them waiting.” He offered, taking the lead. Athos nodded his approval and fell into the rear position, D’Artagnan joining him in order to keep a better eye of the surrounding tree line in case there were more men hiding, while Porthos followed Aramis up the path.

“Hello,” Aramis called warmly as they got closer. He was normally the one elected to negotiate or deal with such situation, his friendly and warm personality lending well to the task. “How are you all doing this fine morning?”

“That’s far enough,” the taller man spoke, putting his hands on his hips in a very confident manner meant to intimidate. “This is our road and to use it, you’ll hav’ ta pay a fee.”

Aramis stared a little speechless; something about these two looked familiar but he couldn’t say what. “My apologise, I believed this to be the King’s road?”

“And now it’s ours,” the other bandit moved to draw his sword.

“You do realise you are threatenin’ the King’s Musketeers?” Porthos asked, his eyebrow frowning almost in disbelief.

At this the two bandits merely grinned. “It hasn’t stopped us before.”

And suddenly Aramis realised where he’s seen these two men before just as the second bandit locked eyes with hm. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Porthos continued oblivious to Aramis’ sudden distraction. He eyed the two bandits, taking in the two men’s physical appearance, their clothes and their weapons. “You’re telling me you fought Musketeers before?”

“And won,” the man added.

D’Artagnan actually snickered when the lead bandit hooked his thumbs in his weapons belt in an almost childlike manner. 

“I wonder which of the men lost to these two idiots,” d’Artagnan whispered to Athos jokingly. 

Athos didn’t reply, his gaze entirely fixed on the second bandit as an awkward silence descended on the group. 

“Hey, have we met before?” the second bandit finally asked, his brows deep in though as he continued to study Aramis. Aramis, for his part, was trying not to give anything away.

“I suppose in your line of work, you must have come across many different men,” Aramis tried to reason, “that some faces must start to resemble others.” 

Now both men were studying Aramis intently. “No I’m sure we’ve met before.”

Aramis forced himself to relax, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Perhaps we crossed paths on the streets of Paris,” the marksman lied.

The two men didn’t seem convinced and Aramis did his best to ignore the way Porthos was now also eying him. He wondered if Athos had made the connection but he couldn’t risk glancing back at his friend.

“You’re the musketeer we robed a few months ago,” the first bandit eventually exclaimed, David if he remembered correctly. The two bandits exchanged grins before pulling out their swords with renewed confidence. “Back for more I see.”

“It was a failed attempt, if I recall,” came the soft but dangerous reply from the back of the group. 

All eyes turned towards Athos but the man’s steely gaze stayed fixed on the bandits, his face a mask of cool composure but d’Artagnan and Porthos could see something else boiling underneath.

The bandits merely stared back unfazed, also recognising Athos. “We had you beat,” the leader spoke confidently with a slight snicker as he pulled his shoulders back to appear taller, his gaze openly challenging Athos. “We thought the King’s Musketeers would have proven more skillful. Perhaps we should enlist,” the two bandits laughed.

“And yet it was the two of you who ran away,” Aramis reminded cheerfully, doing his best to turn the attention away from Athos. Though Athos’ face was an unreadable mask, his friends could see the tension in his shoulders and the cold anger in his eyes, and most worryingly was the fact the two bandits seemed oblivious to their own imitate danger.

“Hold on,” Porthos interjected, cutting off any reply the bandits might have had, “these two attacked you? When?”

Aramis really didn’t want to be having this conversation right now but he knew Porthos was not going to be side steped. “Yes,” he admitted, “on our way back from the monastery.” 

Porthos glanced back at Athos, who continued to fix the bandits with a stare that would scare any sane person, before turning his attention back towards the bandits. “These guys beat the two of you?” The idea seemed ridiculous to the bigger man and he couldn’t help the small smile that pulled up the side of his mouth. Athos and Aramis were among the best swordsmen in all of France and these two didn’t seem to pose much of a real threat to anyone. “Well this day’s getting better and better,” he joked, making D’Artagnan chuckle as he too seemed to find the situation amusing.

“We did not lose,” Athos repeated, his tone sounding anything but amused.

“Are you sure? ‘Cause these two seem to think otherwise,” Porthos continued, not at all intimidated by his friend.

Aramis swung down from his saddle, making the bandits take an uncertain step backwards before they quickly recovered and held out their swords in an awkward position. “Gentlemen, that’s not necessary,” he spoke in a light tone, holding his hands out in a peaceful manner. “Let’s all agree what’s in the past is in the past.” 

David chuckled and held Aramis’ gaze. “Sounds like you’re afraid to face us again, Musketeer. I can see your friend back there quacking in his boots.”

That did it. 

Athos dismounted and was pulling out his sword before anyone had a chance to reply. Aramis, having anticipated as much, quickly grabbed Athos as he came barreling towards the two bandits. “Athos, they’re not worth it,” he tried to reason with his friend.

Porthos and d’Artagnan stared in shock. They could count on one hand the few times they had ever seen anyone get a rise out of Athos, and somehow these two manages to get under Athos’ skin, or rather his pride.

“Athos,” Aramis repeated, shaking the other man’s shoulders lightly to get his attention. 

With Athos so close and at eye level, the bandits really did seem to reconsider their initial challenge, their confidence wavering slightly. But with Aramis holding the other man back, the bandits felt safe.

“I was wondering when you were going to work up the courage to get down from your horse. And here I was starting to think you were going to let your friend face us alone,” David jeered bravely. “Need someone to hold your hand?”

Athos slowly turned his head and locked eyes with Aramis.

Aramis, unlike the bandits, knew danger when he saw it and slowly removed his hand from Athos’ shoulder. “Just try not to kill them,” he asked, taking a small step to the side to allow the other man to pass.

“Are you sure you want to fight both of us at once?” The two men continued laughing as Athos approached. 

The fight was over in seconds. 

D’Artagnan had seen Athos fight many times before, but this was something else. This was cold and calculated, and the fact the men were still alive was astonishing.

Athos stood over the two men, his sword pinning the leader to the dirt as the second man watched from the mud. They had been disarmed in seconds and knocked down faster than anyone thought possible.

“Pray we never meet again,” Athos spoke clearly and softly as he stood over the two men, his sword held inched from the man’s chest. He held his position until the man nodded his understanding before taking a step back and letting his sword drop.

The musketeers watched as the bandits scrambled to their feet. Athos only had to tighten the grip on his sword to dissuade the leader when he moved to pick up his discarded sword.

“That was entertaining,” Aramis chimed in a little too enthusiastically as they watched the men scamper down the road. “Thank you for defending my honour.”

Athos didn’t reply. Instead he gave the marksman a stern look as he made his way back towards his horse, sheathing his sword. They all watched in silence as Athos mounted his horse, the atmosphere feeling tense as he led his horse past his comrades to take up the front position.

Porthos and d’Artagnan waited till Aramis had mounted his horse before falling into step behind their silent leader.

“Anything else you two want to share about your little vacation?’ Porthos asked loud enough for Athos to hear, “Cause I have a few unanswered questions.”

Athos didn’t acknowledged the question, but Porthos hadn’t really expected him to.

“I don’t think he plans to answer that,” D’Artagnan concluded, doing his best to keep a straight face. “I suppose it’s probably a little embarrassing, having lost to those two. I can’t imagine what the Captain will think if he finds out his two best men were defeated so easily.”

“Please tell me they at least ambushed you properly.” Porthos asked as he turned to face Aramis. 

‘Well…” Aramis started but was cut off by Porthos’ booming laugh as he correctly interrupted his friend’s hesitation.

“We didn’t lose,” Athos grumbled from the front as his two friends roared in laughter.

Aramis watched from the rear position. He knew Porthos and D'Artagnan were not about to let them live this down any time soon, and though he knew he would be at the receiving end of most of their jokes, he couldn't help but smile. He felt at peace, surrounded by his brothers, and this is where he was meant to be.


End file.
